Because this was about - what it was about?
Anger, frustration. Long, cold years that had made all the flowers die on the side of the marble walls. Bricks on the walls had grown too long; this chilly air had went to the bones.
Years of mourning, of sadness. And happiness, too. But the Queen was gone. Her embrance still lingered on his memories.
Her memory still walked on the corridors; it whispered softly into his ears every time he pressed the crown onto his head.
These burning bodies, they couldn't heal his sorrow. Nor his guilt.
They only mended it, made it easier to breathe. The air rolled in without trouble for awhile, until he went to the royal bed every night.
There his loneliness flooded back to him, surrounded him like a cage.
He watched his son grow, learn new things and becoming so much wiser than he had ever been himself. He noticed the longing glances his son made after a maid, how his manservant made him smile and laugh, how well he got along with his knights. He could see the loyalty in the peasants' faces when they looked at their future ruler - hope. Hope - one thing he couldn't offer to his people.
And his daughter, taken by the night. Consumed by power, by hate.
So much hate.
It was like a curse in this family.
Who could cure his tragedy?
Years, no. Time, no. His love to his children, hardly.
Because the only thing he saw in his son's eyes was the Queen, her gentle forgiveness and passionate stubborness. His son was nothing like him; even if the prince tried to prove it time after time. The king knew.
The king knew that someday, his son would marry a maid. The king knew that his son had grown attached to his servant, he had heard the rumours of how he treated the servant like an equal, how no rules obliged to him. How much they seemed to be friends more than a master and a servant.
He knew all about it, he saw, he listened. He observed.
Sure, he knew. But he pretended he didn't.
He was a broken man, who was easily provoked. But the king knew much more about the things in Camelot than no one else. He just let them be.
He just wanted his children to be happy.
If his daughter was already too far gone, hating him from the bottom of her blackened heart; the only thing he had was his son's love. Unconditional love. So he wouldn't point a blaming finger to the maid. He wouldn't claim the knights to be banished because they didn't fulfill the knight's code. He wouldn't exile the servant, because these peasants seemed to make his son happy.
What did it matter who they were?
If his son got the happiness he had lost, who was he to deny it? Even if it could be done by snapping his fingers.
So the wrinkles on his face deepened and shadow crept inside his soul, and every time he condemned an innocent victim to the pyre, he knew he was one step further towards hell. But it didn't matter.
Because what was hell compared to this? Wasted years with anger, his children growing further and further away from him, his Queen's bones rotting in the black mud of the royal graveyard. The fire of the pyres reminded him where he was heading. The smoke of the burning bodies filled his nostrils, curling their fingers invitingly to him.
His Queen would look at him with blaming, gentle eyes, and ask him why he had come to this. Why did he made other people suffer for his own mistakes? Why did he rot in his empty shell, where no consolation could enter?
Was there an answer?
Uther didn't know.
These were the things he didn't know, even if he knew everything about his own kingdom. His own soul was out of reach.
Every time he stood on the graveyard alone, his tears were endless. The pain hadn't easened, nor the guilt. All of it was fresh and raw like the night the Queen had died and the prince was born - poignant, all so poignant. It hadn't faded. The pain. It was all here, written to the grey tombstone in front of him.
His Queen was gone, along with the man he used to be.